


fall awake

by redstringraven (sirimiri)



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: A Bunch of Fucking Losers form a Gang, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Compliant, Christ Just Look at Them Sources are Saying, Dark Humor, F/M, Found Family, Hijinks & Shenanigans, Human Experimentation, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-17
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 20:52:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21821737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirimiri/pseuds/redstringraven
Summary: The broiling pain, at first all-encompassing, begins to fade. Terror creeps in a slow, pooling chill that starts in his stomach and leaks into his veins. His breath gets shallow. All of his senses are waking up. But they’re too late.“Event one.”They’re the first clear words he’s heard. A deafeningclickerupts and echos through the chamber.And thepain. The pain is immediate.White. Andhot.Blue, gray, slate, it’s all gone. It’s just red. Red, white, electric, and searing, tearing into him like a savage, starving animal. His body somehow weightless yet folding all at once. He can hear himself screaming, and he’s not the only one. The dogs are screaming, too. Their voices a cacophony of strangled howls, splitting cries, swelling louder andlouderandlouderin his head until he canfeelthe squall twisting under every inch of his skin.
Comments: 14
Kudos: 29





	1. lazarus

**Author's Note:**

> **CONTENT WARNINGS:**  
>  this fic will contain NSFW content such as violence, gore, (mild) torture, body horror, PTSD and other psychological related issues.
> 
> **fic info:**  
>  you probably guessed, but this is a devil's nest gang centric fic, focusing primarily on their origins, relationships and with a bit of canon divergence toward the end because you're not my real parents and i can do what i want. i've been meaning to get around to writing this dang fic for almost a decade, now, and finally decided that if i don't just start it already, i'll never get anywhere with it.
> 
> this fic is going to be partially planned and partially me winging it, so please bear with me as updates will be a bit sporadic. with all that out of the way, thank you so much for clicking into this self indulgent clusterfuck of emotions i have for this found family of idiots, and i hope you enjoy!

Voices.

Words, indistinguishable, whispering through darkness.

That’s the first thing he’s aware of.

Faded. Muddy. There’s sand on his face, he can feel the grain scrape between his cheek and a thumb. His eye opens. Pulled open. There’s light. Blinding light, and shadowed figures above.

Everything’s heavy. He can’t move. Everything’s cold except for his side. It’s burning. Fire. Is he on fire? What the hell hit him?

This fucking war. ...this _fucking_ war.

“Ch… ris?”

God, his own voice has claws. The breath rakes through his throat and bubbles as it touches his tongue. He chokes on it.

Sound pulls away, swallowed in a vacuum of black.

Silence.

…

 _Silence_.

…

A force hits the back of his head, jolting him back to awareness. The voices are back. His eyes open, but this time, he opens them. Everything’s blurry. Blue… gray. Metal. Cold. There’s movement on his right, and he rotates his head.

A white figure. Details, smudged, as though he’d been spinning in circles to purposely dizzy himself. Couldn’t make out a face. He’s still too heavy to move.

...no… no, that’s not right.

He watches his own fingers curl into a fist. He lets them fall open again. He tries to pull it to him, but his arm catches. Leather digs into his skin, and the fine grains of sand beneath it scrape the surface like knives. The pain fades, small in comparison to whatever’s boiling against his side.

“...wh...ere…?”

It still hurts to talk. He’s aware of something leaking out of his mouth. It’s hot. Sticky. The figure moves away from him. His eyes follow after it, gaze fixing on another passing in white. This one’s pulling an animal. It’s large, dark. Growling and feral. He sees a flash of white and pink. Teeth.

Pressure guides his head to stare ahead, and there’s another figure leaning over him. Everything’s still murky, but he can make out large, round, glowing eyes. …--no. Glasses… reflecting light. Their face is covered with a white mask. He tries to blink--to focus his eyes. Something sharp presses against his temple and burrows into the bone. His eye twitches and a breath forces itself from his lungs.

The colors bleed into each other. White to gray, gray to slate. Shapes lose themselves. Somewhere, dogs are barking. He can hear voices behind and around him, muttering, chuckling, the clatter of metal.

What the fuck is going on?

What the _fuck_ is this?

Where is he?

Is this a nightmare?

Is he dead?

Is this death?

The broiling pain, at first all-encompassing, begins to fade. Terror creeps in a slow, pooling chill that starts in his stomach and leaks into his veins. His breath gets shallow. All of his senses are waking up. But they’re too late.

“Event one.”

They’re the first clear words he’s heard. A deafening **click** erupts and echos through the chamber.

And the _pain_. The pain is immediate. _White_. And **hot**.

Blue, gray, slate, it’s all gone. It’s just red. Red, white, electric, and searing, tearing into him like a savage, starving animal. His body somehow weightless yet folding all at once. He can hear himself screaming, and he’s not the only one. The dogs are screaming, too. Their voices a cacophony of strangled howls, splitting cries, swelling louder and _louder_ and **_louder_** in his head until he can _feel_ the squall twisting under every inch of his skin.

His body convulses. The violent force snaps his head back. He drops, never aware that his spine had curled upward, and his hands had twisted, dug, and peeled their nails through the metal and left a trail of white and crimson. Somehow, he’s breathing. Black oozes from the corners of his vision as a figure steps into view.

They lean over him. A hand lifts, finger hooking the white mask and pulling it down to their chin. He sees a flash of teeth. One of them glistens despite the engulfing darkness.

“Aren’t _you_ a stubborn one? Just the stroke of luck we were hoping for.”

The voice comes murky, as though spoken below water. He can hear the figure chuckle.

Dolcetto tries to speak, but the world is slipping away. He’s sinking. The black closes around him, and the figure’s last words are little more than a whisper in his consciousness.

“So _glad_ to have you, 156.”


	2. bad idea!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> like i said, updates on this fic are gonna be kind of unpredictable. so if you're willing to stick around, thank you much! 
> 
> ALSO, i've given names to the members of the devil's nest who went without in both manga and FMAB (during my time in the RP community, word was the art-book gave 2 or 3 of them names but i never saw it for myself). if you're unsure of who's being referred to now, no worries. faces will be connected to names as the story goes on. i can also make a lil list in one of the chapter notes if y'all want or need me to. e-e/ cheers!

Early mornings, before the crack of dawn, is pretty much the only time Dublith could ever be considered quiet. Once the sun rose, the market came alive. Locals invaded city streets, and from that point on, there’d be activity until the last of the bars closed during late witching hours. Four-ish hours of ‘quiet’ wasn’t bad. Just wish he could be awake for all of them.

Dol rounded an alley corner, wiping the back of his wrist across his damp brow and flicking it down to his side. He widened the gait of his jog long enough to roll back a shoulder, then evened his pace again. The sun hadn’t even shown its face yet, and the city was already hot and muggy. _That’s the south for you,_ he thought with a grunt, side-stepping a spill of trash. A few rats scuttled out of his way. One of them squealed, knocking over a can as it scrambled through a crack in the wall. The clatter alerted a nearby dog, and the sharp, barking alarm sounded somewhere down the street.

With a huff and a quick change of direction, Dol took a small flight of steps two at a time, heading to a lower level of the back alleys. He landed with a bit more force than he’d hoped; a jolt of searing pain flared in his right calf. The burn went ignored, and he carried on without breaking speed.

Familiar posters and graffiti soon decorated the passing walls, and the odor of rotting food and garbage began to fade behind him. A little, anyway. For his damn sniffer, it’d become a permanent lingering presence. Without the moonlight or sunlight, even the most experienced city-goers would find the darkening tunnels at least a little intimidating (if they had their wits about them). But Dol didn’t just know this road like the back of his hand. He lived in it.

There’s a kitchen door to a shitty bar ahead, and he shoulders through it as his steps slow to a leisurely walk. His heel knocks back, closing the door behind him, and he locks it. The scent of garbage fades, and as he inhales sharply through his nose--swipes the back of his palm against his upper lip--he catches a whiff of another tell-tale scent. He’s never put a name to it, but it kinda smells like alfalfa in a dusty barn. Familiar… but not quite exact.

Dol rubs the back of his neck and strolls further into the kitchen. He pauses to peer around one of the food shelves, defenses up just in case some dumbass had crept in through the open door. But nah.

Owen’s standing by one of the counters, wiping down the coffee pot. Dol raises a hand in a greeting wave as Owen turns toward him, making his way to the sink.

“You’re up early,” Owen states. He adjusts his spectacles, expression inquisitive. “Earlier than usual, anyway.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” Dol said, snatching the nearest clean-looking glass and shoving it under the faucet. Some of the water splashes out and over his hand. He lets it. Dublith’s climate may be one he’s used to, but his familiarity didn’t stop his skin from boiling under its own sweat after a long run. “Figured I might s’well make better use’ve my time.”

“Mn. Bad dreams?”

Had anyone but Owen asked, Dol may have bristled. The question had a tendency to carry a mocking air to it.

Dol shook his head, shrugging a shoulder before turning enough to lean his side against the counter. He took a quick swig of the water. “Nah. Just restless.”

“Sounds on brand.”

“Heh.” Dol glanced past the kitchen window into the bar’s outer area. The old chairs were still stacked upside down on the tables, shadows pooling in the corners. No movement. He brought his attention back to Owen, who had paused to give his dishrag a few brisk whips. “Seen the boss yet?”

“Not since last night,” Owen said. He scratched at the marred skin framing his upper-right eye. “But you know my memory. Could have bumped shoulders with him this morning and forgotten just as soon.”

Dol frowned. “Right. … Don’t worry ’bout it, then. ’Ll track him down later.”

Owen hummed. “He’s scheming again, isn’t he?”

“No, shit.”

“Another hit?”

“No fuckin’ clue.”

“That’s always nice. Love the lack of communication.” Owen set the pot aside, moving to collect a skillet and pan from one of the wall hooks. “Well, if you don’t track him down first, I’m sure he’ll find you. Always does.”

Dol dumped the remaining water into the sink. “Tell me about it.” He set the glass inside, clapping his hands together and stretching them high over his head. “Nnnnhgh-- don’t worry ’bout cleanin’ bar. I’ll take care’ f it before breakfast.”

“You sure?” Owen turned around, blinking widely from behind his glasses. “You’re drenched. It’d probably be wise to shower before everyone else wakes up, and the hot water’s gone.”

“EeeeEehhhhh.” Dol gave a nonchalant wave of his hand as he moved to the kitchen door. “Gonna get grimy from cleanin’ anyway, so what’s the point?”

Owen sighed as the door swung closed.

Dol rounded behind the bar, plucking a few remaining shards of glass off the floor and counter as he went. He tossed them into a bin and stepped back, assessing the state of the station (as well as what he remembered seeing from the previous night). Owen and Axel had managed to get most of the glass, but the scent of cheap wine still burned his nose. Must be a stain or puddle somewhere that needed mopping. All the rags and washcloths needed a rinse--he could tell that by appearances alone. But they had nothing on the dishes. Cripes, this place was really a pig pen sometimes.

He snatched a tub from the back shelf and began sweeping glassware inside with his forearm. The dishware clattered and clinked loudly, causing his eyes to squinch up and the corners of his mouth to curl. One of the worst fucking noises, honestly. Glass and metal shit scraping together.

Dol crouched below the bar, giving his head a shake and plucking anything that looked used from the shelves. Last night hadn’t even been that busy by their usual terms, but those who’d stuck around past midnight had drunk their weight’s worth. Vulch might have emptied a whole fucking barrel on his own. It’d be a wonder if any of them even woke up before noon--

“--Mister Dolcetto!!”

“-- _ **FUCK**_ \--” Dol just about jumped out of his skin, scrambling to catch the tub before he dropped it.

He jolted upright and nearly hit Bido square in the nose on the way up, but the smaller man scrambled back with a squeal and toppled right off the counter, hitting the floor with a muffled thud. Dol stood rigid before letting out a growl, slamming the tub onto the bar and flattening his palms on its surface. He lifted himself up to glare over the opposite edge. “BIDO. The **fuck** have I tolja about sneakin’ up on me?!”

“I’m sorry!!!” Bido squirmed, wriggling onto his back and scuttling to stand a few feet from the bar. He wrung his hands, eyes bright beneath the hood of his cloak. “I’m _so sorry_ , Mister Dolcetto, I--I didn’t think--!”

He stammered on, but Dol had already ducked his head, exhaling a slow, slightly shaken breath. He pinched the skin at the bridge of his nose, focusing himself inward, doing his best to push away his senses--the heightened sound, smell, the drum of his own heart. A brief bubble of nausea tickled the back of his throat, and he swallowed. _Damn adrenaline rush’ll take forever to die down._

Bido’s still babbling, and Dol pulls his hand away from his face, raising it in a ‘stop’ gesture.

“It’s FINE, it’s _fine_.” He sighed heavily and dropped his hand to his side. “Just don’t fuckin’ do it again. You’re damn lucky I didn’t have my weapon on me.”

Bido flinched, his gulp audible, and his nerves buzzing in the air between them. The sensation did little to slow Dol’s already racing heart--instilling a desire to vault over the counter and pounce. One palm still on the counter, he dug his nails into the wood. A weak, unreliable sort of anchor… but an anchor nonetheless. “What is it, lil guy? What’ dya want?”

“I-- _um!_ \--I just thought that you might know where Mister Greed had gone?” Bido asked, inching a little closer. His tail twitched beneath his rags, and he sent a nervous look around the bar. “I’ve been looking for him! All over!! --I don’t even think he’s in the city anymore!”

“Sure he is,” Dol said. “You know the boss. When he wants t’ make himself scarce, he’s air.”

“But what if he’s left?!”

“He’d tell us, Bid.”

“--did he tell you?!”

“ _No_ , Bido. He didn’t. That’s how I know he’s still ‘round.”

“... you’re sure?”

Dol exhaled, very, very slowly through his nose, his eyes rolling up to stare past his brow hard enough that his skull ached. “ **Yes**. Bido. I’m sure.” He dropped his gaze back down. “Give’m a few more hours, and he’ll show. Always does.”

Bido fidgeted. He stared at Dol for a few more seconds before glancing around the bar again, as though Greed might walk through a wall or crawl out of the ground (which is fair). Dol let the silence linger a moment longer before he grunted. “Somethin’ on your mind?”

“I just… -- I’m worried!” Bido turned to him. “I think I may have been _seen_. --An accident! --The bakery had some _delicious_ looking sweet rolls still in the window, and I just! --I thought, _maybe_ , I would be quick enough--!”

Dol raised a brow. “Who do you think saw ya?”

“I don’t know!”

“That’s not gonna help me solve the problem, Bid.”

“That’s why I need Mister Greed!!”

“ _Shit_ , calm down, will ya?” The request comes more like an order, and Dol winces a little at himself. That damn buzz in the air. He couldn’t dig his nails into the fucking counter much longer before he risked losing them. “ _Look_. I’ll have Vi and Gunshow make rounds. Okay? If anyone’s acting squirrely, they’ll take care of it.”

“Someone’s getting to ‘take care’ of something, and it’s not me?”

Dol threw a glance to the door that leads to their sleeping area upstairs. He’d heard her footsteps approaching--even smelled the familiar scent of wet earth and rain. It always clung to her skin, even when the sky had been cloudless for days.

Martel smiled as she hopped off the last step and threw the door shut behind her, and she moved with a ridiculous amount of grace for anyone this early in the morning. She swooped into a crouch in front of Bido, giving him a wink before tilting her head sideways to meet Dol’s eyes. “I think I’m jealous.”

“Good,” Dol said, tilting his chin up. Martel scoffed. She turned back to Bido and reached above his head, giving the top of his hood enough of a tug to pull it over his eyes. He squeaked as he shoved it back into place.

“Dol’ll take care of it,” she said easily. “Always does. Juuuuust be a _little_ more careful next time. Hm?”

“Yes!” Bido chirped. “Yes, of course, Miss Martel.”

“Just Martel, short stuff. And if you snag any of those rolls, bring me one.”

“Of course--of course!”

Bido nodded and brushed past her, sending them both a quick glance before he slid past the stairwell door and disappeared up the steps.

Martel sighed and straightened up. She took the couple steps to the bar and bounced the remaining way, so she slid into place on a stool, immediately propping one elbow on the counter and her cheek in her palm with a quicksilver smile. “Good morning, sunshine.”

“Ehhhhhh,” Dol groaned, scooping the tub back into his arms. “It sure is a morning, alright.”

Martel rolled her eyes. “Tragic. Get your run in already?”

“Yep.”

Martel hummed, and Dol heard her nails drum once along the countertop. “Not overworking that leg, are you?”

“It’s fine. I’m fine,” Dol muttered. He turned to face her, propping the tub on his hip. “I stretched and everything--the damn muscle will get cranky later either way. No helpin’ it.” He paused, noting she seemed unusually chipper for someone slow to wake in the mornings. “... couldn’t sleep?”

“Woke up with Blondie’s foot in my face,” Martel said. “I’d tell you what it smelled like, but you could sniff from across the room and _still_ give a more apt description than me.”

“I’m a man of useless talents, what can I say?”

“‘Useless’ is a strong word. Toss me a glass?”

“What, a clean one?”

“Do I give a fuck?”

Dol smirked. He picked the glass with the least amount of stain and smudge on it, giving it a light toss across the counter. She caught it, twirled it over in her fingers, and leaned enough to turn on the small sink and fill it with water.

Martel sat back and took a slow sip, eyes trailing to the kitchen window. “Mm… smells like Owen’s in the kitchen.”

“Yep.” Dol returned to tossing dishware, rags, and whatever else looked like it needed a washing into the tub. “Early bird gets the worm and all that shit.”

“Second mouse gets the cheese,” Martel muttered. She sipped the water again, the glass clicking as she set it down. “Boss was sayin’ something about a job last night. Talking pretty big to the girls.”

“The boss? Talkin’ big to women? Stop the _fucking_ presses.”

Martel laughed, and Dol moved a little slower, so the glasses in the tub didn’t rattle quite as much. She sighed, and her nails drummed along the countertop again. “You know how he is. ... _anyway_. Who do you think he’ll be draggin’ along? ‘Side from you, ‘course.”

“Dunno,” Dol said. He straightened and carried the tub to the end of the bar, dropping it on the surface. “Depends on the job. If it has to do with those pricks on the other side of town, he’ll definitely drag Roa and Vulch into it. Might not even need me.”

“Oh, he’ll take you regardless.”

Dol sent Martel a glance. She sent him a natural smile, and she winked. “Uh. _Yeah_. I guess. You jealous or somethin’?”

“A little,” Martel sighed. “I feel left behind lately. Even though he knows _no one’s_ better at infiltration than _me_.”

“You got that right.” Dol moved to stand across from her, a little more on her left side. He crossed his arms and folded them on the bar, letting his weight sink into his forearms. “He’s probably just, uh. …--I dunno, Martie. The asshole’s hard to read sometimes. Never really know what he’s thinkin’ unless it’s trouble.”

“Is it ever not trouble?”

Dol chuckled. “Touche.” He paused, scratching at the space behind his ear. “... I’ll see if I can get some answers outta him before… whenever the fuck this ‘job’ is happenin’. If it even does.”

Martel looked up at him. She gave him a small smile and nodded before sitting back and pulling a knee to her chest, resting her chin atop it. After a second or two, her gaze trailed off. Her smile sharpened again to its usual coy smirk. “If it _is_ those dumbasses across town, I say we have a little fun with them before we exterminate the rats.”

“You’re the worst, Martie.”

“I think that’s why we’re friends.”

Dol snorted. Martel’s brows raised, and her smirk widened, delighted. “ _Oh?_ You didn’t know? You’re a total ass.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“One part dog, one part human, whole parts jackass. -- You’re sure there’s not a donkey in there, somewhere?”

“Ha **ha!** _Cute_.”

She leaned forward, fingers threaded together, and chin now hovering above them. But just as her lips were parting, Dol’s skin went cold.

Pins and needles crept up his arms, and he snapped his head toward the bar entrance. It was a near-sickening sensation, one that’d slowly grown familiar over the years. The approach of something that wasn’t human. Martel must have recognized his reaction, because she let out a small huff and sat back, resting her forearms on the counter. “Speak of the fashionably late devil.”

The door swung open, and a tall silhouette ducked through the threshold. Dol caught a flash of Greed’s round glasses just before the door swung closed. He pushed off the counter to stand straight and dusted off his hands, nodding once as Greed sauntered toward the bar. “Boss.”

“AaaAaaa, THERE you are!” Greed said. He flashed Dol a wide grin and nudged his glasses to rest on the crown of his head. “Been lookin’ for ya all night, Runt.”

Dol squinted. “Think your concept of time flew out th’nearest window again, boss. I was here all night ‘till I went for a run earlier.”

“Yeah, yeah. Looking sharp as usual, Martie,” Greed said, leaning over enough to reach out and flick the long strand of hair from between her eyes. Martel huffed, shaking her head as she leaned back a bit further.

“Still ‘Martel,’ boss.”

Greed chuckled. He pocketed his hands, turning back to Dol. “Y’don’t look busy. Why don’tcha take a walk with me?”

Dol opened his mouth, starting to jab a thumb toward the filled tub at the end of the bar. But Martel slid off of her stool and moved wordlessly to collect it, smirking and bouncing her brows at him as she propped it on one hip and used it to shove through the kitchen door.

Welp. There went his best excuse.

Dol sighed, turning to face Greed, but the homunculus had already started toward the door. Grabbing his katana and the top portion of his robe from where he’d tossed it before his jog, Dol rounded the bar counter and trotted to fall into step behind Greed.

* * *

They walked in silence, as they usually did. For the first half of the trip. Dol always knew their destination was close when Greed started filling the air with vague statements or chuckling ominously to himself like a joke had been told, but he was the only one who got it.

Dol stretched high over his head, grunting as his fingers strained to reach a nook in a dilapidated building’s wall. Greed, always the cheater and a show-off, had already completed the climb. He’d wait at the top but not for long, and Dol growled to himself as his nails finally found purchase. He got a steady rhythm going--hand, foot, foot, hand, hand, repeat--and pulled himself over the roof’s crumbled ledge.

One of Greed’s small brows poked over the rim of his glasses. “You’re slow today.”

“ _Tch_.” Dol straightened, dusting his hands on the chest of his robe. “More like you’re picking the _shittiest_ walls to climb.”

“I thought you liked a challenge,” Greed egged, the corners of his lips already curling skyward. “ _Heh!_ Wear yourself out trying to beat Moose’s weight record again? Quit while you’re ahead, Runt.”

Dol’s shoulders squared. He forced an exhale through his nose before he had the chance to bristle. “You gonna tell me why ya dragged me up here, or you just gonna stand around and take cheap shots?”

Greed scoffed, turning with his shoulders and striding to the other end of the roof. He kicked a loose brick aside to reveal a pair of old, cracked binoculars and picked them up as Dol approached behind him. Greed offered them to Dol, and he took them, lifting them to hover beneath his eyes. “Okay. What’m I lookin’ at?”

“Warehouse. One o’clock,” Greed answered, side-stepping away and pocketing his hands. Dol pressed the binoculars over his eyes, scanning the rooftops until he found the one. Greed continued, “been doin’ some of my own scouting outside of Bido’s usual haunts. Gossip is they wanna move in on our turf.”

“Don’t know where they got that fuckin’ awful idea,” Dol said. He skimmed what he could see of the open roof, but it looked pretty bare. “Last guys were easy enough to scare off.”

“Yeah, well, th’last guys were new in town. Didn’t know what they were getting into.” Greed paused. Dol didn’t need to lower the binoculars and look at him to know that shit-eating grin was back when he spoke up again. “What’s that phrase you said your ‘pa’ used t’say?? Too big for their??”

Dol sighed. He lowered the binoculars but kept his eyes locked ahead. “Britches. Too big for their britches.”

Greed threw back his head and laughed. Dol rolled his eyes, letting his gaze trail off in the opposite direction toward the sunrise. It peered just over the horizon, and he tried to imagine what colors were bleeding across the morning sky like watercolors on damp paper. Kind of a hard thing to do when you’ve gone almost two decades without seeing orange or pink. You start to forget colors… like forgetting the sweetness of blueberries after years of stale mush and questionable meat.

“ _Hell_ ,” Greed snickered. He slid his glasses onto his forehead. “You humans are pretty weird. …--well. Ex-human.”

“I’m guessing you wanna snuff ’em out before they get a jump on us,” Dol said, all but shoving the binoculars into Greed’s abdomen. The homunculus grunted, but he caught them. Dol jerked his hand back before it had the chance of contact.

“Yeah, that’s the idea,” Greed said.

Dol glanced at him. “Y’got a plan?”

“That’s kinda where you come in, Runt,” Greed said, rotating a hand to send him a lazy point. “I’m, _of course_ , the master behind the plan. Buuuut, I always like to get a second opinion. Keeps me on my toes--points out, uuuuh… _unimportant_ details I mighta overlooked.”

That’s Greed for _‘I know what I want to happen, and I want you to ensure that it does.’_

Dol snorted. “Uh huh. Shoot.”

“I think we need to send a message,” Greed said. He grinned widely--wickedly--and propped one heel on the roof’s ledge. As he leaned forward to rest an elbow on his knee, he rubbed the underside of his chin with his thumb. “A message that’ll lower the chances we have t’deal with this sorta shit again.”

“Sure.”

“A message that this is **my** city.”

“Obviously.”

“I _think_ \--” Greed straightened, holding up a finger “-- it’s time we painted the streets red.”

Dol shifted his weight. He crossed his arms, looking out to the warehouse again. The sun had just begun to pool on one end, its light moving in a slow crawl toward the center. “How red, boss?”

“Don’t think it matters much to you, Fido.”

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“... _how_ red, boss?”

Greed almost scowled as he leaned forward to get in the corner of Dol’s vision like a spoiled child denied his favorite toy. “This is **my** city. _My_ rules. And the progress I’ve made toward finding what I need? Is also. _ **Mine**_.”

Dol gritted his teeth, raising his hands as a barrier between them. “It _matters_ because we don’t wanna draw TOO much attention from the wrong fuckin’ people, Greed. Like the goddamn military? Or **your** ‘pa.’”

The shift in the air is immediate. Though Greed shows no outward signs of anger, Dol can feel it in his skin. It hits like a wasp sting and shoots through the system; his heart even skips once, and the feeling is alarming. He does his best to keep his own appearance calm despite knowing he’d hit the wrong nerve.

Greed rubbed his chin. He simpered, chuckling under his breath. “ _Heh!_ ...my old man doesn’t care what I get up to. Long as I don’t get in his way.” He tilted his head toward Dol, smile deceptively easygoing. “Sounds more to me like you’re getting soft. A little gang on gang whoopin’ too much violence for an _ex-soldier gone lab-rat?_ ”

Those last words dripped with enough acid to melt the roof under their feet. Greed knew exactly what buttons he was pressing. The guy was stupid sometimes, but he wasn’t a complete fucking moron.

Dol stared at Greed, his gaze needling. He sniffed, brushed a thumb across the bottom of his nose, and looked back to the warehouse. “You got an entry point scoped out?”

“Yeah. Thought we’d have Martel do the ol’ vent trick.”

 _That takes care of that,_ Dol thought. He exhaled through his nose and nodded; Greed continued, “she can open the garage in the back. We get in. Rip the place a new one. Throw up a devil. Get out.”

“And if they have a panic button?”

“How would they already have a panic button?”

“How wouldn’t they?” Dol countered, shooting him a sharp glance. Greed paused, grunted, and nodded as he looked out over the roofs. Dol scratched the curve of his neck. “They’ve likely got weapons.”

“So do we.”

“Yeah, but last stock Blondie did gives the impression we’re fuckin’ low on ammo.” Dol folded his arms. “And Owen’s not gonna wanna join if he can’t shoot. Especially after last time.”

Greed snorted. “He was fine.”

“He got a goddamn knife through the underside of his foot, boss.”

“But did he _die?_ ”

“You’re such an asshole.”

“ **Oh!** ” Greed held up one finger. “And there’s just one. More. _Little_. Thing.”

The scowl on Dol’s face dropped. He knew that tone. Things weren’t as simple as a turf war. Something else about these people had caught Greed’s attention.

Dol rolled his jaw, shifting his weight to his other foot. Greed chuckled.

“These guys have something I want,” Greed continued. “To get it. _Safely_. We need to make sure the whole pack is exterminated. **Every** last one.” He shot Dol a look. “No escapees.”

Dol blinked. “Uh. --How many are we talkin’?”

“Upwards of thirty.”

“-- **Thirty?!** ” Dol repeated. His arms dropped to his sides. “I don’t know if you’ve counted lately, boss, but that’s twice our numbers-- _including_ Bido. The little guy doesn’t fight!”

“Roa and Vulch more than make up for him,” Greed said with an absent flick of his wrist. “And give me some credit, Runt. I count for ten, at _minimum_.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Dol grumbled. Greed gestured out toward the warehouse.

“We get Martel in. While she’s making her way to the garage door you, Guns, Axel, and Cain’ll circle the building and make sure all the doors are locked or blocked to shit. We’ll figure out how to cover windows, too, so they don’t get any smart ideas. --Also probably need to get an official headcount beforehand so we can get all’ve ’em in there at once--no one gets left out. We come in through the garage and start cleanin’, from bottom to top. The higher up we flush’m, the fewer chances they’ll get out with their legs intact. Any that try, we can easily hunt down. Broken ankles make slow runners.”

Dol closed his eyes as Greed spoke, exhaling through his nose and rubbing his temple with his thumb and forefinger. Closing all the exits meant _they_ only had one means of escape, too. They didn’t know what defenses this group had set up on the inside, where they stashed their weaponry or if they had an underground escape hatch like the Nest’s bar did. If shit started going south? This could turn into a damned _suicide_ mission. There were dozens of steps he was gonna have to take beforehand to make sure things were even remotely safe--getting that headcount, searching for possible escape routes to block, estimating the weapon caliber. That’s not counting the stuff he hadn’t thought of yet.

It was a fucking crazy idea. _Insane._ Didn’t make sense.

Greed turned to him. “You’ll do it?”

“Of course,” Dol replied. “Give me a week, and I’ll have what you need.”

“ _Heh!_ Knew I could count on you, Fido!”

Greed’s compliment came with a firm hand on Dol’s shoulder.

The reaction is instantaneous. Dol’s upper body ducks out from beneath it, and he chops a palm up and over to swat Greed’s hand away, even taking a wide step back to put distance between them. The motion is complete before Dol’s mind even registers what’s happened, and it takes him a second to clear his head as he watches Greed shake out his wrist with a huff. “Whoops,” Greed mutters. “Forgot.”

“... sorry,” Dol breathes, his hand cautiously sinking back to his side.

“Heh. ‘Least ya don’t bite, eh?” Greed flashed him a grin. He pocketed his hands and turned, swaggering back the way they’d come. “Not _often_ , anyway.”

Dol watched him before looking back out to the warehouse. The roof had gone white with sunlight, and the building stood quiet and still.

“For the record? I’m into that!” Greed called over his shoulder.

Dol stiffened, paused, then rolled his eyes with a growl as he turned to follow after Greed. “That’s _great,_ boss. **Super** happy for ya.”

“Haha! That’s the spirit!”

“...Ugh.”

This was going to be a long, pain-in-the-ass week.


	3. don't sweat it

“He’s kidding, right?”

Martel slammed her glass on the table, staring at Dolcetto as he tipped his head back to finish off his bourbon. He let out a snort and wiped his knuckles across his mouth, setting his own glass to the side. “It’s the boss. You _think_ he’s kiddin’?”

“Fuck,” she hissed, sitting back in the booth and folding her arms. She shook her head and exhaled through her nose. “The _hell_ could they possibly have? Doubt some random Dublith rats have anything that would get him closer to immortality.”

“Could be information,” Dol offered. Martel tilted her head with a scoff.

“Then why not just kidnap one of ’em? Sounds a helluva lot easier than infiltrating the damn place and turning the building into a tombstone.”

Dol shrugged. “Gotta get rid of the whole hive if y’ don’t want the wasps comin’ back pissed.”

“You’re such a country hick,” Martel said, smirking. Dol let out another snort, shooting a glare across the bar, a clear sign he wanted to drop the subject for as long as he could. Martel frowned. She reached out and framed the rim of her glass with her fingers, tipping it from side to side, so the golden-brown booze sloshed about. “You think you got time to squeeze in an extra hit before y’ get started on Greed’s project?”

Dolcetto didn’t move. At least, most people wouldn’t have noticed that he did. The clue is subtle: an upward twitch of the brow, a minor flare of the nostril, and tic in the ear. Other members in the Nest had caught on to the nose and ear movements… but she took a small amount of pride in having known Dol before the labs. She knew to watch the brow.

“What kind of hit?” Dol asked. He looked back to her, leaning one elbow on the table.

“I’ll warn you now. You’re _probably_ not gonna like it.”

He smirked humorlessly. “Oh, **that’s** great. ...so, you’re askin’ me becauuuuuse…?”

“Because you’re good at your job and don’t fuck around.”

“Glad _someone’s_ noticed. Get to the point before I get cold feet.”

Martel raised her glass, taking a slow sip and lowering it back to the table. “...Vi needs more hormones.”

“... _fuck_.” He breathes the word, which is a good sign. A growl meant there’d be no convincing him; a sigh meant a little coaxing, little reassurance, might get him on board.

“Dol,” Martel started quickly, “you know it’s important to her--”

“--No, I know, I know, Martie,” Dol interrupted. “It’s not _her_ , it’s…”

“Medical shit?”

“Yeah. _Fuckin’_ medical shit.”

“Gil or Gunshow always takes care of administering them. We just have to get in, nab ’em, get out.”

“ _I know_ , I know.”

Martel frowned. She paused, then leaned forward and tapped the table beside his arm three times. “C’mon.” She slid out of her chair and gestured for him to follow, quick to offer up a smile. “We’ll make a trip outta it.”

“A trip, huh?” Dol asked, gathering their glasses and moving after her. She glanced over her shoulder as they passed the bar, watching him dump the drinks in the sink.

“Yeah. Rooftop race. Loser buys us both ice cream from the corner parlor on the way back.”

“Oh- _ho_. That’s a bold bet. You lookin’ to burn a tip from last night or somethin’?”

Martel scoffed. “Big talk for a _short guy_ with a small stride.”

“ _Cheap shot_ for a sharpshooter.”

Martel rolled her eyes, lifting a hand and flicking her wrist back to him, her middle finger in the air. She heard him chuckle as they shouldered out the bar’s door.

* * *

Afternoons like this were a weird blend of pros and cons when it came to temperature concerns. The extra heat meant she didn’t have to worry about stiff muscles or skin so sensitive that grabbing hold of a roof ledge would feel like dragging her fingers across sandpaper. Unfortunately, it _did_ mean she’d be at risk of getting drowsy. A sunbathing session might have to be in the books later.

Martel stretched her arms high over her head, swinging into an arch and sighing. She dropped her arms and propped her hands on her waist, peeking over her shoulder. Dolcetto stood a few feet from her, the toe of his boot propped on the roof’s ledge as he leaned into his heel. He was stretching the problem leg… good. Last thing she wanted was him injuring himself because he was too fucking stubborn.

Compared to their days in the academy, there wasn’t much to see… Dol preferred a few layers of clothing between him and the rest of the world, regardless of Dublith’s climate. Where she’d deemed sleeves to be a crock of bullshit and got some ink to distract from the legions of scars speckling her upper body, Dol had opted to arm guards. They helped during fights, sure, but she knew what’d really drawn him to them: they hid scars, and they prevented direct contact. He didn’t shake hands, didn’t bump fists. He kept his hands to himself, arms usually in a fold, and always ready to duck away from an incoming palm on the shoulder or fingers looking to ruffle hair.

...it really fucking _pissed her off_ that someone who’d once been so laid-back and openly affectionate had been molded into a guarded, borderline paranoid shell of his former self. The ‘old’ Dol was still in there, somewhere... he just refused to come out after... _everything_. And who could blame him?

They didn’t talk about it as much as they should. None of them did. If her brother were here, he’d drag them all, one-by-one, into the center of the den, sit them down on whatever surface he could find, and have them toss a ball around the room and talk when it was in their hands. Not the most conventional way of tricking your loved ones into opening up, but it’d always worked under their roof. For better or worse.

“Martie?”

Martel looked up with a blink. Dol had turned to face her, and he tilted his head slightly to one side. When he noticed he’d gotten her attention, his mouth curved into a crooked smirk. “Ready to get your ass beat?”

“No, but I did pick up a fresh jar to collect your puppy tears in. The old one’s full.”

“Martel Reed makes puppies cry. The _worst_ kind of person.”

“Uh-huh.” Martel braced a foot behind her, leaning low as she flicked her hands out to her sides. “On three.”

“Right,” Dol grunted. “And no dirty tri--”

“--THREE!!”

“-- **MARTEL** \--”

Sorry, Dol. _Too late_.

A wicked grin split her lips as she bolted ahead. Martel ducked low and stretched upward, hooking her fingers around a high wall and hauling herself up and over. She dashed across the roof--vaulting a large AC unit--and dropped to the other side. Her boots hit a fire escape with a rattle. She flew down a flight of steps before snaking herself through the rails--feet first, arms twisting to allow space for her head--and began a smooth descent through some scaffolding. With a glance upward, she caught sight of Dol’s shadow clear the gap between buildings.

Going for the bird’s route. _Alright, alright_. She’d never been one to favor the city canopy, anyway.

Martel chuckled. Legs and arms pumping, she wove through the alleys toward the street. The market would be hopping this time of day, but she’d had more than enough time over the year to know when it was busiest and where. She cleared a walkway rail, speed unbroken by the barrier.

Dublith streets were pretty shit compared to the inner cities; she’d grown up on slick pavement, walls with fresh paint, windows clean enough to check your reflection as you passed. She didn’t miss them. Dublith suited her far better. From the uneven bricks in the road and the handfuls of abandoned buildings to the secret nooks and crannies you could claim for your own, it’d felt as though she’d belonged here the moment she’d set foot over city lines.

A car horn trumpeted, and Martel glanced to her right in time to see the vehicle. Her lips curved into a smirk. She didn’t stop. As the car screeched into her path, she threw herself forward and let her momentum carry her; a hand on the hood, legs tucked close, gliding through the air and out of harm’s way (topped off with a wink to the pretty gal behind the wheel). Her boots scraped the landing, and she ran on with a laugh.

It’s a clean sprint through the alleys. A bit of weaving, a couple more vaults, a fence or two to climb. Every few seconds, she’d shoot a glimpse skyward, searching for movement or a familiar silhouette following overhead. Dol was either in a different area, far ahead of her or far behind her. She was willing to bet on the latter.

Nearly there.

Martel hopped, planting the balls of her feet on a rail and using it to boost her up. She gripped a windowsill and pulled, one foot steady on the beam as she reached for the next roof ledge. Up and over. Easy as cake. She darted across the roof, dropped from the edge to a lower shelf below, then onto a stairwell rail, crouching long enough to grip it and brace herself for the remaining drop. Her bones absorbed the impact like a sponge, and she charged on.

The small clinic is in her sights. She feels a slight tinge of worry; what if his old injury had acted up and caused him to crash somewhere back there? It wouldn’t be the first time. Breaking bones was something she hadn’t had to worry about in years, but he still--

\--movement on her left side. Martel bristled, snapping her head in its direction.

Dolcetto shot into view. He threw his arms back and plunged forward, diving through a walkway rail with so much precision she was sure not even his clothes had grazed the metal. He hit the pavement--shoulder first--and rolled, not an ounce of momentum lost as he righted onto his feet. Whatever path he’d taken, it’d gotten him ten feet ahead of her.

“-- **HEY!!** ” Martel shouted. She heard Dolcetto bark out a loud laugh, and she gritted her teeth.

Her eyes scanned the passing buildings and walls around them--searching for anything that might give her an edge. In a full-fledged sprint, he _would_ outrun her. If she wanted to seal the win, she had to be clever.

She caught sight of a fire escape ladder hanging just at the alley’s exit. Her lips wove a smile.

Martel flung an arm forward, allowing it to stretch ahead as she dug her heels into the ground and scraped to a stop. Her fingers strained--but she got hold of the bottom rung!--and, with a chuckle, she let her weight drop backward. The ache of tension in her skin and muscles is brief but burning, and her body goes near-limp as she allows herself to slingshot into the air.

The trick came with its hiccups, of course. Martel felt her shoulder clip the ladder as she flew past and knew a bruise would blacken the skin by evening.

For a split second, the street blurs, and she does quick work of righting herself in the air. Below, Dolcetto shouts something. She doesn’t care. Her feet hit the sidewalk, but she let herself fall into a lopsided somersault and rolls to stand. With a victorious laugh, she closes the distance between herself and the clinic wall. Her palms slam against the brick.

“-- _HA!!!_ \--” She crowed. “I WI--”

A hand gripped her upper arm--yanked her away from the wall. Martel’s eyes went wide as she fell--the brick and sky momentarily dulling to shades of cold metal and bars. She hit the dirt with enough force to bring her back to reality. Dolcetto had dropped over her to shield them from view, only sitting up enough so he could peer out of the bushes he’d forced them into. Her chest heaved as she drank in air, and she had to blink a few times before she thought to brush bits of hair and leaves from her eyes. She squinted up at him, huffing.

“Dolcetto, what--”

“ _SHH,_ ” he hissed. His posture was tense, alert. Martel couldn’t help but sigh and roll her eyes, letting her gaze drift off to her left. She plucked one of the leaves out of a bit of gravel and turned it absently in her fingers.

Dolcetto snapped his attention to her. “What the _fuck_ was **that**?!”

“A clever use of resources,” Martel grumbled. Dolcetto snorted, the tail end of it curdling into a growl.

“It was _fucking stupid_ is what it was--the **fuck** were you thinking?!”

“Uuuuh... That I _really_ wanted free ice cream.”

“That’s not worth blowing your cover for!!” Dol sat back on his haunches and pressed a hand over one eye, groaning under his breath. “It ain’t ‘xactly normal for a woman to stretch twenty feet and-- _fuck_ \--catapult herself outta a goddamn alley!”

“You’re dramatic. It wasn’t twenty feet.”

He responded with another low growl. Martel smirked to herself. She knew his frustration came from a place of concern… of a specific fear they had to face on a semi-daily basis. The worry that their status as ex-humans would be exposed, that the military would find them, that they’d be executed as fugitives--or _worse_ : dragged back to the underground labs. The thought is enough to overpower any amusement she’d felt, and she sits up, pulling her legs out from under him. A leaf pokes the corner of her eye, and she swats it away.

“Hey. We weren’t seen, okay?” Martel said. She wrapped her arms over her knees, frowning. “I wouldn’t have done it if I didn’t know most of the crowds were in Grand Platz buying the day’s meats. You _know_ I’m more careful than that, even when I’m pulling stunts.”

Dol folded his arms, keeping his eyes focused on their surroundings. This small pause in conversation is more than enough to confirm her statement; the roads were silent, the rumble of bartering and children playing a faint murmur from the inner streets. Martel watched as the strain in his brow slowly vanished, and his expression went from irritation to something almost tired. She winced a little at herself.

“...Yeah. I do know,” Dol finally muttered. He shook his head. “We’ve had some close calls this month… and th’next month ain’t lookin’ all that promising either, so. ...sorry, Martie.” He looked at her. “Shouldn’t have snapped atcha like that.”

Martel smiled. She snorted, tipping her chin up. “You’re forgiven this time. But you’re on thin fucking ice.”

Maybe not the most sentimental of responses, but… it gets a smirk out of him. That’s good enough for her.

“--Welp. Looks like ice cream’s on me.”

“Sure is,” Martel said. 

She pushed to her feet, fishing her lock picking tools from one of her pockets. At least the trip inside would distract long enough for any awkward discomfort to fade. She’d busy herself talking to a nurse or receptionist while Dol took to the shadows and hunted down their prize. By the time they were out, it’d be well enough behind them.

* * *

“I can’t believe you didn’t snag a seasonal flavor.”

Dolcetto glanced back at Martel as she spoke up, lifting a brow. “ _Tch?_ Their June flavors suck.”

Martel’s jaw fell open, and she let out a gasp. “ _Fuck you!_ Grapefruit sorbet is the best!”

“Nah. Stickin’ with peppermint.”

“If _any_ flavor should be seasonal, it oughta be that one.”

“Bullshit.”

Dol sent a glance over his shoulder, and they ducked off the main road into the next alley.

Once out of view and back in the shadows, Martel pocketed her free hand and adjusted the small bag slung over her shoulder. She considered taking a bite out of the ice cream and the cone but reconsidered when she remembered gum freeze was all the more a possibility for her. Damned cold blood… sometimes it really sucked the fun out of things. She turned the cone over and dug her fangs into it anyway. Call it spite if you want. The sting hit instantly, but the taste and satisfaction were well worth it.

Martel tilted her head back, scanning the full, blue sky. “Think we’ll see any stars tonight?”

“Not ‘nless we go out to the dead areas ‘a town,” Dol said. “City lights drown ’em out.”

“...do you miss seeing them?”

The question escapes her before she has the chance to stop herself, and Martel bites down on her inner cheek. She turns her head, a little surprised to see a soft smile on Dol’s features in place of the expected frown.

“Yeah,” he said. “Ma and I used t’ sit out on the porch on clear nights. When I was younger, I had a habit of fallin’ asleep out there, and I’d wake up back in my bed. It was a fun routine while it lasted.”

Martel smiled. “I wish I could’ve met your mom. Everything you’ve told me about her? Sounds pretty solid.”

“‘Cause she is.” Dolcetto rolled his shoulders back, bouncing down the couple steps leading further into the lower alleys. Martel paused before she followed after him. Roa, Axel, and Dolcetto were the only members of the Nest who ever referred to their past families in the present tense. It was interesting and… a little sad. Almost like they held onto some sort of hope that they’d see them again someday.

They all knew that would be impossible… _regardless_ of Greed’s thoughts on the concept of impossibility.

The remaining walk back to the bar is silent, and they finish off their cones before any lingering Nest-mates might see them and get jealous.

Dol pushed through the kitchen door, propping it open with his foot as she passed through the threshold. They’d gotten maybe five more steps into the building when a voice rose from the bar window.

“ _EyyyYY_ , Dog-man!”

Dol stopped in his tracks, shooting a scowl across the room. Blondie stood on the other side of the window, his arms crossed and propped on the sill and a shit-eating grin that could rival Greed’s cutting his features. And, of _course_ , he wore another one of his obnoxiously bright shirts that would give you a headache if you looked at it for too long. Where the hell he even found those things, she’d never know (but if she ever found out, she’d burn it to the ground).

Blondie winked, shooting a finger-gun toward them. “Where you two been? I tolja not to exclude me from a spar session again.”

“We were pickin’ up for Vi,” Dol answered, his tone sharp and blunt. He jabbed a thumb to the bag over Martel’s shoulder. “No sparrin’. But I’ll still punch y’ in the teeth if you’re eager.”

“ _Pfff_.” Blondie blew air through his lips. He shifted his weight back. “That’s assuming you could reach my face, little man.”

Martel opened her mouth, but something more pressing had gotten Dol’s attention and drove him to beat her to the punch. He stepped forward, pointing a finger. “--Are you wearin’ those damn blades again?!”

Here we go again. What was this, the third time this week? Martel sighed and rolled her eyes, but not before seeing the way Blondie’s spine straightened.

“--Uh,” he started. He had begun sliding backward without the use of steps. Seems it was those damn rollerblades again. Dolcetto must have heard them squeak or something when Blondie shifted his weight. Had the bastard just stayed still, he may not have gotten caught.

Dolcetto marched toward the kitchen door--Blondie ducking out of sight--and snarled as he threw it open.

“-- You’re gonna SCUFF THE FUCKIN’ FLOOR,” he yelled. Martel watched, expression dim, as the top of Dol’s head passed behind the window sill. “It’s gonna drive Owen NUTS all over again!! -- HE’LL OBSESS OVER IT FOR A WEEK.”

A door slammed, and silence followed.

Martel stood for a moment or two longer before chuckling to herself. “Just gonna leave that to be someone else’s problem.”

And she did.

She moved down one of the small corridors leading to the back section of the building. A relatively small area, considering they used it for storage, keeping track of drink and food stocks, and… basically, anything else they needed it for. Try as Owen and Dolcetto might, they’d never quite been able to get the others to fall into some kind of system. Being that the room was the most enclosed, and the link between the bar and an underground waterway, it had a tendency to be rather cool in temperature. If you were looking for someone, it served as a good starting point during the Dublith summers.

Martel slid through the narrow gap in the room’s open door. Sure enough, a group of four sat around a crate as a makeshift table, each of them with a fan of cards. She couldn’t explain it, but she knew Bido lurked in the room somewhere, too. The feeling of being watched by an unseen pair of eyes was one she’d come to recognize, and Bido had developed a habit of being a fly on the wall even when he didn’t intend to.

Cain’s the first to look up from his hand, his one good eye momentarily wide and alert. His expression quickly grows bored, if not a little irritated, as he recognizes her. “Oh. S’just Martel.”

“Try to contain your enthusiasm,” Martel said. She shrugged the bag off her shoulder and sent him a coy smile. “It’s not my fault you’re shit at blackjack. Still waiting on those fifteen bucks.”

Cain scoffed, palming his cheek and glaring in the opposite direction. Gunshow chuckled, leaning over enough to cuff Cain’s shoulder with one of his fists. The automail must have locked up halfway through the motion because the ‘cuff’ turned into more of a swift punch.

Cain growled and cupped his hand over the reddening spot on his arm. “--Ow! What the _fuck_ , Guns?!”

“--Sorry!” Gunshow said. He held up his hands, and Vi leaned across the crate to put her palm in front of Cain, as well.

“We need to get him more oil soon, Cain,” she said quickly. She’d always been the soft-spoken type, but her bandages tended to muffle her already quiet voice. A problem she was, at least, aware of. Vi pulled some of the wrappings away with her other hand, her strangely textured, ghost-white skin briefly visible. “You know the last valves were repurposed. They act up sometimes.”

“Is the game over?” Moose asked dryly. He scratched his beard. “Not asking because I have a bad hand or nothin’, but…”

Cain groaned and threw his cards on the crate, getting up and storming off. Martel let him clip her shoulder as he walked by, scoffing under her breath. She shook her head and dug into her bag.

“Guess that’s a yes,” Moose said, setting his cards aside. He stood, moving back to where he must have been taking stock before the cards came out. Vi propped her elbows on the crate and dropped her head between her hands with a loud, almost dramatic huff.

“He’s such a pissant sometimes,” she said. “Wins, he brags for a week. Loses, he sulks for a _month_.”

“You expect anything less at this point?” Gunshow muttered, tilting his head and smirking. “Eh, we can play another round later--when Axel and Owen get back. They’re better competition, anyway.”

“True.”

Martel knelt beside Vi, holding out the two boxes swiped from the clinic. She smiled. “Here, Vi. Noticed your stash was getting low.”

“--Holy shit!”

Vi gently snatched the boxes from her, turning them between her hands. Only one of her eyes was fully visible behind the wraps, but Martel could see it light up immediately. It widened the smile on her own lips, and she chuckled as Vi leaned forward. “Martel! _Thank you_ \--but. --I mean, I really appreciate this and all, but isn’t it a bad idea to do it again so soon? It feels like you just got me a pack not that long ago.”

“I don’t keep track of time most days, so I’ll take your word for it,” Martel said. “Don’t sweat it. I don’t think the doctors or their nurses are onto us. It’s not a supply they seem to check that often.”

Vi fidgeted. “I know, it’s just… what I still have, I could easily stretch out to another month--maybe even two. I don’t want--”

“-- _Vi_ ,” Martel interrupted. She kept her voice gentle but stern. “You went without those for over a _decade_. On top of all the other shit. We’re not gonna let you go through that hellscape again if there’s something we can do about it. ... don’t sweat it. Okay?”

“If it’s important to you, it’s important to us,” Gunshow added. He lightly rested a hand on Vi’s shoulder, rubbing the slope of her neck. Vi looked at him, hugging the boxes to her chest with one arm and resting her hand on his. Martel couldn’t help but mirror the smile she imagined must be on Vi’s lips.

Vi turned back to her, nodding once. “Thank you, Martel. It… really does mean the world to me.”

“Ehhh, I can’t take all the credit,” Martel said. She pushed to her feet. “Dol came with.”

“--Wait-- _Really?_ Where is he? I need to thank him, too.”

“Last I saw, he was chasing Blondie down. Could be throttling him right now, could be _getting_ throttled. Either way, I’d expect him back before we open.” Martel chuckled, winking. “Just make sure you catch him alone. He gets real squirrely when you bring attention to something _nice_ he’s done. Got a reputation to keep.”

“Right, riiiiight,” Vi said. She shook her head. “Ugh. I’ll keep that in mind.”

Martel tapped two fingers to her temple and flicked them out in a mock salute before heading out of the storage room. She crossed her arms behind her head, sighing and letting her head tip back against her wrists as she walked.

It would probably be a good idea to track down Roa. His input would be more than useful in the days to come.


End file.
